Nice To Meet You
by WinterSunshine
Summary: Tarzan and Jane's first meeting, told from Jane's POV.


Clayton moved much too quickly for Jane to keep up—especially in the new boots she'd convinced her father to purchase for the trip but had failed to break in on time. She found herself scrimmaging through the towering throngs of bamboo shoots, led only by the sound of conversation and Clayton's trigger happy finger.

Curious, and more than slightly peeved about the recurrent gunshots, she rushed to catch up with her father and the man he'd hired to keep them safe on their gorilla studying expedition to Africa.

Finally, through the shoots and foliage, she could see them—Clayton, roaming the canopies of the trees edging the small opening they stood in, and her father frozen in place.

"Daddy?" she called, pushing through the brush, gripping her sunshade and sketchbook in one hand, pushing aside the bamboo shoots with the other. "Daddy, what's all the hullaballoo about?" Finally reaching the edge of the thick brush, she pushed into the edge of the clearing, sidling up alongside her father.

"Shh, shh, shh," he hissed in response, "Mr. Clayton asked me not to move." His tone was subdued, quiet and Jane glanced over her father's shoulder, over to where Clayton was still searching the trees.

Deftly, she moved past her father and approached the tall, broad man with the gun.

"Uh, Mr. Clayton…" she began, coming up behind him where he was rummaging through some of the bordering foliage with the butt of his rifle, "Sorry, excuse me; but my father and I came on this expedition to _study_ gorillas, and I believe your shooting might be scaring them off…" She said all of this with a hesitance that was unlike her, but it was difficult to feel totally confident and sure of oneself when this towering man was around.

She twisted her umbrella nervously between her hands as he replied, eyes still scanning, not even registering her face, the gentleman, "I am here to protect you, Ms. Porter, and protect you I shall." Finally his eyes found hers as he gave a little bow at the end of his statement, no regard for the gun which was swinging haphazardly between them.

"And you're doing a marvelous job of it," she assured him, edging the mouth of the rifle away from her face with the curving handle of her umbrella. "But we only have a short time before the ship returns, you see, and…"

Suddenly, she was interrupted by the ever-present enthusiasm of her father. "Oh, Jane! Jane!" he cried, rushing over, "Don't you realize what you're standing in?" At the same time that he said, "A gorilla's nest!" she gasped in realization, gazing around the patted down ground around her. She dropped to her knees with her father, dusting her gloved hands gently over the gathered leaves, imagining what it must be like to sleep curled up here on the rainforest floor, as a gorilla.

In the excitement, she forgot about the sweaty moisture pooling in her brasserie, the frizz in her hair, the sticky mess of her makeup. The discovery was so exciting. She'd waited nearly a week in camp, studying a varying sort of other animals, before they'd made this hike to finally, _finally_ do some research on the gorillas.

As Clayton and her father discussed the possibility of the animals being close, she glanced up and over, finding dozens more nests nearby. She and her father enthused over family groups, a theory her father had come up with during research back home in England.

No sooner had they become excited about her father's prediction but Clayton was shooting it down. Jane had just begun her defense when Clayton let off another two rounds, dangerously close to her head. Jane ducked, clapping her palms to her ears and cowering in fear. Sunlight streamed onto the forest floor where he had shot two gaping holes through the tree canopy.

"Mr. Clayton, please," she begged, "what if it's a gorilla?"

"It's no gorilla," Clayton murmured, mostly to himself, scanning again—had he ever stopped? Jane had been too distracted by the nests to notice.

Immediate anxiety gripped her insides, and she too had to gaze around. What was it, then? A leopard, a cheetah, stalking them, waiting to pounce?

They pressed on, Jane falling a short distance behind her father and the man with the gun. No sooner had she taken three steps, when something bonked her in the head, causing her to jump and let out a small shout of fright—not loud enough, however, for Clayton to hear. Some protector he was…

She glanced down at her feet, catching sight of a small papaya coming to rest a couple feet in front of her. She was about to chalk it up just to fallen fruit, when a tiny baby monkey scrambled down a tree after it, scooping it up and taking a bite, not a bit deterred by her proximity.

"Ah," she cooed to the little mammal, "are you what all the fuss is about?" He gazed at her, casually chowing down on the fruit. Quietly but with urgency, she called in a muted manner after her father, but quickly realized he'd be too far off to hear her now. She decided to sketch the little creature and show her father when she caught up with him. "Hold still," she demanded of the monkey, pulling out her sketchbook and pencil, quickly penciling down a rough drawing.

When she looked up from the paper moments later, the papaya rocked, abandoned. Disappointed, but ultimately glad she'd gotten the drawing, she began to shut her sketchbook, but jumped slightly when she felt a tiny animal scurry up the edge of her skirt and cling to her shoulder. Taking a quick glance, she confirmed it was the same tiny monkey, and opened her book wider to show him the picture.

"There you go," she said to the sweet, curious little thing, "what do you think?"

He seemed to contemplate for just a moment, and in a flash, had snatched her sketchbook right out of her hands. As he scampered off across the floor, Jane started after him.

No way was that little rascal getting away with her sketchbook! With all her notes, and all of her drawings!

Without much trouble, she seemed to catch up with him, finding him admiring the drawing she'd just sketched. Jane had to admit, the little monkey was pretty intelligent. Not intriguing enough, however, to get away with stealing her drawings.

"Come on now," she said, perturbed, "enough of this. I'm going to count to three. One, two—oh, look, bananas!" she cried, pointing. Miraculously, the little monkey fell for it, glancing the other way. Before he could react, she'd snatched the paper out of his hands and tucked it safely back in her sketchbook.

Realizing he'd been tricked, the little monkey began to wail and Jane laughed at it. "No, no, don't give me those crocodile tears," she goaded it, "What would your parents have to say?"

No sooner had she uttered the words, than a horrible hissing rose up around her, and as she glanced up she found an army of baboons, eyes ringed blue, fiercely snarling at her.

As they edged toward her, she found herself talking to the little monkey again, with what sense that made, slowly backing away.

"See? I told you they'd be cross," and then turning her attention to the older baboons, "Go easy on him. Children will be children."

A tree root too close behind her caught her ankle, and she went down. As she did, the baboons advanced at a frightening speed, and she scrambled to her feet, fleeing as quickly as she could. They streamed after her, the entire army, and Jane knew that if she didn't escape—or at least find Clayton and his gun, of which she was quickly becoming a fan—she'd be baboon food.

Ahead, there was an expansive chasm, logically too long to jump, but Jane went for it anyway. Really, what did she have to lose?

She found herself flying, suddenly, suspended in the air too long for it to make any sense. That was when she felt the tugging pressure on her skirt belt, and glanced up to see what she'd caught on—and promptly screamed. A man with dreadlocked hair dropping to his mid-back, nearly naked, swung from a vine by one hand and gripped her with the other.

At the same time, she noted a baboon clutching her ankle, gnawing at the boot—the only thing between its razor-sharp teeth and her skin. Beating it over the head with her umbrella, she refused to relent until her boot—and the baboon—hurtled the hundred something drop below.

The man took her through a dizzying roller coaster of mossy trees and vines, until finally, it seemed they'd outrun most of the baboons. Clinging to his neck for dear life, they descended down a hollow tree trunk, the remainder of the baboons following them. Her stomach lifted into her throat as earth dropped out from underneath them and Jane found herself hurtling through space, still clinging to the man, whatever help he might pose, screaming her head off.

Just as she thought they were done for, he gripped a vine, rebounding them up, soundly landing on a wide tree branch. But they weren't safe yet, because crashing down after them came the hollow log they'd broken off. She let herself be dragged to the base of the branch, back pressed up against the tree, the man in front of her, his arms and wide shoulders sheltering her. There was a huge crack as the log broke off most of the branch they'd been standing on, and then panting silence.

In an image clearly from a dream—that or Jane was going crazy—the baby monkey, and the baboon which must have been its father, came drifting down the way on the breeze of her umbrella, jibbering away to them.

Unbelievably, the man began to jabber back, and Jane watched in utter disbelief. He turned back, snatched the lone drawing of the baby monkey she'd somehow managed to save—the rest of her sketchbook was gone for good—and handed it to the monkey as he passed.

_Enough of this_, Jane decided, _I'm getting out of her_. She edged out from between the man and the tree, inching around the narrow ledge of the tree.

"I'm in a tree with a man who talks to monkeys," she muttered to herself, one foot slipping. She edged herself onto a wider looking branch of a nearby tree, feet there, but hands still on the ledge. She found herself very stuck, counted to three, and pushed off as hard as she could. Not hard enough. After a second of flailing, she fell right back into the position she'd been in. Great.

"It can't get any worse, can—" Jane found herself interrupted by a clap of thunder and then the signature steady shower of a rainforest downpour.

Just then, the man's face came into view, popping out from underneath her, and she screamed. Fuelled again by her fear, she pushed off again, flailed again, but this time was stopped by the man's index finger on her breastbone—how dare he!—and pushed back safely to the ledge.

She cowered against the tree, demanding he stay back, as with curious, open eyes, he inched toward her. "No, no," she begged, sticking out her bootless foot and planting it against his chest to impede him, "don't come any closer."

Her foot seemed to work, as he stopped and glanced down at it for a moment. Then he took her toes between his fingers and began to wiggle them. Jane couldn't help the laughter that slipped from her, now pleading him to stop. "Please!" she implored, "that tickles!" Then she felt one of his hands release one of her toes and come up her calf, to the edge of her skirt, beginning to lift it.

"Get off!" she cried, jerking her foot up to kick him in the jaw.

Immediately he released her, staggering back, shaking the rain out of his hair like a wet dog.

"You stay away from me," she said to him, tucking her knees to her chest and her skirt down close, "like a very good wild man." Despite her warnings, he came closer. Did he have no sense of humanity, of a woman's preservation, of the word 'no'? It was almost as if he didn't understand her whatsoever. "Now, that's close enough," she said, his face coming within inches of hers and his hand came alongside her face. Appalled by his zealous disregard, she went to slap him.

In the same movement, he caught her wrist with his hand and she saw the hole in the tip of the right ring finger of her glove. She barely had time to be morose about it—these gloves had been very expensive—as the wild man lifted his other hand and gently peeled the entire glove from her hand, examining the exposed palm, the fingers. So intent, he was. She'd never seen eyes so focused, so intent. As if she were the first human he'd ever seen, other than himself. How could that be?

Now, she didn't resist as he pressed his palm against hers, his tanned fingers slowly uncurling to stretch up straight against hers. As their palms pressed close, he gazed into her face, absolutely wondrous, enthralled.

After a moment, he moved again, too quickly and she pressed her back into the tree, as far away as he could get. He ducked in, again ignoring her protests, pressing the side of his face, his ear, between her breasts, against her chest wall—listening, she realized, to her heartbeat.

After a moment he pulled away, took her face between his hands, and pulled it to his own chest, pressing her ear there so she could hear the own steady drum of his heart. She tried not to pay attention to the chiseled tightness of the muscles under his skin, the firmness of his pecks. How had he gotten in such amazing shape?

"Yes, thank you," she stammered, using both hands to push away from his chest, "Lovely heartbeat. It's very nice." She found herself speaking to him as she spoke to the young children in her classroom back home—slowly and emphasizing each syllable. She began to draw her damp hair up off her neck, scrambling for pins to put it back in place after having fallen loose in the wild monkey chase.

After a contemplative moment, he said to her, "It's very nice."

"Oh, thank you," she said, "I can't do anything with it in this humidity, though—" and paused, turning her gaze to him, releasing the work she'd done with her hair. "You do speak. And all this while, I'd thought you just this big, wild, silent person—thing. Why didn't you tell me—" He brought two of his fingers to her lips, halting her blabbered speech, and then gestured to his own chest, fingers curling again in that same, strange, ape-ish way, two curled knuckles against his chest.

"Tarzan," he said. She must have looked confused, because he inched closer and repeated it, still gesturing to himself.

"Tar-zan," she repeated measuredly.

Excited, he grunted strangely, again, his mannerisms much like an ape's.

"Oh, I see," she said, realizing this must have been his name.

"Oh, I see!" he repeated, in the same, dawning realization tone she had used. He paused and then gestured to himself. "Tarzan," he said, and then gripped Jane gently by the shoulders, "Ohisee!"

Realizing he must have thought this was her name, she shook her head. "No, no, no," she corrected, clearing her throat, "I'm Jane."

Again he repeated her, in a falsetto voice, with the same hand gestures she'd used.

"No, no," she said again, and pointed to herself. "Jane," and she pointed at his chest, "Tarzan." She repeated the process once more, hoping he'd get it.

"Jane," he breathed, grasping her chin and lifting her face a little higher so he could see her clearly.

"Exactly."

A gunshot sounded, and she remembered. "Clayton!"

Tarzan turned toward the sound, hanging out on a vine, feet planted against the tree. The rain was letting up, the sun coming out again. Another gunshot.

"Clayton!" he identified.

"Extraordinary," she mused. _I have to bring him to Daddy,_ she decided. "Please," she implored, rising to her feet, gripping the same vine he held onto, "Can you take me to my camp?"

Tarzan released a sound from his mouth that sounded exactly like a gunshot.

"Yes! Clayton! Wonderful!" she cried.

Then Tarzan was moving back toward her, an arm going 'round her waist.

"Um," she stammered as they swung on the vine, her question turning into a yell of terror. "Can't we waaallk?"


End file.
